Page 75 of Extended Bridge

Without lifting my head, I instruct, “Tell him the rest.”

Court continues, “Well, I had to send her a photo of graffiti that was drawn on our wall. The police already are involved. No one was hurt and this will be painted over as soon as I get the go-ahead from the police.”

“You said you sent a photo to Jenna?”

Even as she responds in the affirmative, he’s in my texts and opening the most recent one from “Court.” I don’t move as he takes in the spider and words. “Fuck.”

“I’m handling this. It’s just one stupid prank.”

I finally find my voice. “It’s not a prank and you know it, Court.”

“Okay, fine. It isn’t. But there’s nothing you can do from Kentucky or wherever you are right now. I’m handling it.”

“You shouldn’t have to do this. It’s my fault. If I hadn’t gone with UC on their tour, this wouldn’t have happened.”

Bennett’s head snaps toward me. “This isn’t your fault. If anything, it’s mine. If I didn’t need physical therapy, you wouldn’t be here.”

“Well, things have taken on a life of their own. The media’s dubbed me the Black Widow, and now some freak in Aroostook is running with it.” I stand. “I should leave.”

From the phone, Court yells, “No. Stay!”

Bennett gets to his feet as well. “If you go now, the media will have won. That you actually are a black widow. Do you really want that?”

I whisper, “No.”

Court questions, “What would you do if you came back here anyway?”

“I would deal with the cops and get the wall repainted.”

“Done and done. Next?”

Sliding down onto the chair, I come up empty. Me, the person who’s always in control, is subject to the whims of the media and now, apparently, a graffiti artist. “What about our patients?”

“Like I told you before, we’re almost back to the levels we were at before the whole Bennett thing happened.”

Next to me, Bennett sucks in a breath. “I’m sorry,” he says to me as well as Court. “I didn’t mean to ruin your business.” He sits and rubs his right thigh. “I only wanted to get help, stay under the radar.”

“Which you did,” Court says. “Speaking of which, how’s your therapy coming along?”

“Good. I’m about eighty-five percent now.” His posture straightens. “Jenna’s moving me on to the most advanced exercises and I’m down to one session a day.”

“Great to hear. Keep up with those exercises, and you’ll be better than normal by the time she’s done with you.”

“I will,” Bennett promises.

Something about the graffiti’s been bothering me, though, so Igrab the phone from Bennett and stare at the photo again. The graffiti wall mocks me. “Hey, Court. Does anything about this graffiti strike you as odd?”

“Odd? No, not really. Other than how much time they took in drawing all the details of the spider.”

There’s something about the spider. I just can’t put my finger on it.

Bennett jokes, “Maybe the artist has a pet spider?”

Or maybe the artist is an actual artist. Or someone who tried, and failed, to become one. “I think I know who did it!” On my feet again, I speedwalk from the television to the fridge. Years of growing up together, watching her draw everything from rabbits to tractors to men. Thaine. My high school boyfriend who she stole with a drawing. Well, and by opening her legs.

Her name expels from my body with venom. “Michelle.”

From the phone, Court asks, “Who?”

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